Strangers Come a Knocking

     Two men in suits pushed a stroller. Right away I pegged them as representatives of a religion. They knocked on doors and talked with residents. I greeted them on my front porch.
     They were Jehovah's Witnesses.
     We chatted briefly. The conversation was pleasant. They went on their way.
     Some people slam the door, or give lip, to evangelists. At least that's what I've read. It must be hard on that child in the photo to watch her father get disrespected.
     What causes some people to act rude? Here's a thought by Eric Hoffer: 'Rudeness is the weak person's imitation of strength.'

Breaking With Tradition

     A boy noticed an airplane circling around. It was losing altitude over a town in Massachusetts. A plume of smoke trailed behind it.
     Soon the plane descended toward a house. The pilot gunned the engine. The plane rose a tad, just enough to make it over the roof. Seconds later the plane crashed. It blew up in a fireball across the street. Flames spread to a forest. The boy peddled on his bicycle to the site of the calamity.
     The two men inside the aircraft were killed. They were British military airmen on a training flight. Chances were, their deaths received little attention. They crashed on June 6, 1944, the same day Allied forces stormed the beaches of Normandy.

     The two men were buried near Boston. They were pretty much forgotten.
     Fifty-seven years later, an American tourist visited England. By happenstance, a local person directed him to a World War II monument. It honored an American pilot who had crashed there.
     By coincidence, the American pilot was from the town where the two British airmen had crashed. By yet another coincidence, the tourist was that boy who'd spotted the British aircraft.
     The tourist went home to Massachusetts, contacted historians, and learned the names of the deceased British pilots. Through his efforts a memorial to the airmen, a Union Jack with a plaque, was created (as seen in the photo).
     I had often driven by the monument without knowing what it commemorated. One day curiosity got the best of me. I pulled my car over and read the plaque. Then I went online. An article in the Boston Globe provided more information.
     Today is Memorial Day. By tradition we honor fallen American soldiers. I shall break with tradition. When the trumpeter recites taps, I'll offer up a prayer for the souls of two British airmen, Lieutenant Albert Dawson and First Class Stanley Wells.

Guilt or Scruples?

     A flower pot had toppled over at a nursery. Wind had knocked it down. I placed the pot back on a pallet. Doing so seemed like the right thing to do, even though I didn't work at the business. While visiting there as a customer, I righted several more flowers and shrubs.
     Soon I came across larger shrubs laying on their sides. I did not pick them up, assuming the employees would handle the job. I wondered, should I have picked those larger shrubs? It wouldn't have been all that hard.
    Sometimes we are inclined to render assistance. If we don't follow through, we feel guilty. More often than not, guilt is a healthy thing. It makes us into better people.
     But sometimes guilt is misdirected. This kind of guilt is called scruples. Here is a definition of scruples from a Catholic encyclopedia: A scruple is an exaggerated fear of sinning when there is in reality no sin.
     It's important--but not always easy--to separate guilty feelings from scruples.

Stupefied

     America is a melting pot. Everybody's heard that expression. Where does this hodgepodge of citizenry mix together the most? On subway trains? At markets?
     The answer, I believe, are the offices of motor vehicle registries. Anyone, regardless of their socioeconomic status, must visit those locations to obtain a driver's license.
     Where I live, service is lousy at those places. During a recent visit (seen in photo) the wait time lasted 1 1/2 hours. The rich, the poor, and the middle class sat together, stupefied in a melting pot of boredom.

Durations of Beauty

     A daffodil regaled me with beauty last month. Today the flower had shriveled. 
     Gorgeous sunsets always fade to dark. Rainbows dissolve into mist. Here in New England, autumn foliage gives way to naked branches.
     Natural beauty is short lived.
     This truism also applies to people. Young women are beautiful. Young men are handsome. But within a few years, their blooms of youth disappear. Does it mean they're no longer attractive?
     It depends.
     One kind of beauty can endure. It's called personality. Some individuals have personalities described as beautiful. They're like flowers seen against a background of green. Being around them uplifts us.
     Other people don't have much in the way of personalities. They're green plants immersed in a mundanity of other greenery.

Wellness from a Swamp

     The turtle rose to the surface of a brook. I took out my camera. He noticed me and submerged.
      I retreated a step. He appeared again. This time he swam around. I got my photo, albeit with the edge of a bridge in the composition.
     The turtle had caught my attention while I strolled along a back road. It's flanked by woods and swamps. Wildlife is abundant. Strolling through there relaxes my mind like nothing else.
     Sometimes I walk in parks with ball fields. Those settings don't compare in satisfaction to the road with wetlands alongside it.
     Here's what a study discovered about visiting outdoor settings: The greater the natural diversity, the greater a visitor's sense of well being.

Priced Out

I paid a $7.50 toll to drive across the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge in New York City.

     Is New York City losing its creative edge?
     I've been visiting there all my life. From the 1960's through the 1980's, the streets were gritty and culturally vibrant. Mom and pop stores were commonplace. Struggling artists could afford rents.
     Once during the 1980's, I strolled down a street in Manhattan. A middle aged man somersaulted on a sidewalk. It happened in front of me. His friend stood beside him and laughed. I did a double take. The laughing man was pop artist Andy Warhol. He looked at me, gauging my reaction.
     The city is changing. It's cleaner and safer. But there's a downside. The street level diversity is fading. It's no longer a supportive place for struggling artists.
     I sensed the change during recent visits. My last trip took me into three of the city's boroughs. Brooklyn seems gentrified. Manhattan feels even more corporate. The Bronx retains something of a vibe, but the Grand Concourse isn't hopping like it was when I was a child.
    Artists are leaving New York. They're moving to other cities where rents are affordable.
    Even famous artists have hit the road. The songwriter Moby moved out. He wrote: 'I was so accustomed to the city's absurd cult of money that it took me years to notice I didn't have any artist friends left in Manhattan.'
      As the future unfolds, new Andy Warhols will emerge from the woodwork of America. But I don't envision them coming from the Big Apple. 
     Is New York City becoming a city where art is showcased but not created? 

Paradoxical Pastime

     The man was eating lunch alone. He sat near me inside a restaurant.
     I walked over. "What are you reading?"
     "No Surrender."
     The book, he said, described the exploits of two soldiers from 101st Airborne Division. They escaped from the Germans during World War II and helped the French Resistance.
     The man had stopped to eat while traveling from another state. I recommended another book from World War II. We discussed other things.
     If that man had been reading a newspaper, or stating into a smart phone, I would not have approached him. But a book is an invitation to conversation.
     During my travels around the country, I've often seen men, usually middle aged or older, reading books while alone in restaurants. Sometimes their books were e-books. Whenever I've initiated a conversation, they've been happy to talk.
     It's somewhat paradoxical. Book reading is a solitary pastime, yet book readers are among the most social people I know.